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{ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, f 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
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http://www.archive.org/details/lostwonrhymeofdaOOstar 



7 3 f r- 



LOST AND WON 



A RHYME 



OF 



DARK AND DAYBREAK 

What is it — this wave within us, 
Heaving to and fro so grandly, 
Ebbing, flowing, in strange round, 
Unto some mysterious motion, 
As a shell might hold a sound 
From some deep and far off ocean ? 



" Which v/ay I fly is hell : 
Myself am hell." —Milton. 



We always may be what we might have been ; 

Since Good, though only thought, has life and breath, 

God's life— can always be redeemed from death." 

— Proctor. 



BALTIMOREti X^Si^?|^|.1- ^^^ 




TURN BULL BROTHERS. 
1874. 



75 ^"^ 







% 



^^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, iu the year 1874, ty 

TURNBULL BROTHERS, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



DEDICATION. 



IN THE 

interest of the 
young men of our land, — 
of our granges, and lodges, and 
christian associations, is this little book written, 
to their generous attention and shel- 
tering sympathy it is timidly 
tendered by their 
countrywoman, 

Tarpley Starr. 



Clarke County, Va., May, 1874. 



PREFACE 



And where the brooding Peace r3ove dwells 
— These Temples built of God 

Upon Time's sand, — 
What worship may they not afford, 
When into holiest reverence awed, 

All the grand soulful service swells 

At His command ? 
What strains ^olian not accord, 
When heaven-tuned string the touch compels 

Of angel's hand ? 



But doors and windows banging to the blast 
— Where in the loft, the dragon sleeps. - 
No choir to sing ; 
Nor worship paid. Down slimy steeps 
The reptiles crawl ; and darkness keeps 
Its owls and bats to flounder past 
On clingy wing. 
And the mad wandering tempest sweeps 

A-wailing through — and shuts at last 
This ruined thing. 



CONTENTS. 



Lost and Won, 

Chapter I. Dark, . . 

Chapter II. Darker^ 

Chapter III. Midnight, . 

Chapter IV. The Turn of the Night, 

Chapter V. Before the Daavn, 

Chapter VI. Daybreak, 
An Evening in the Late September, 
The Swift Ships, ..... 

A Stroll, ....... 

Eventide ; or, the Sunset of the Summer, 
Oft was I Weary when I Drew Thee, 



I'AGE 

9 



9 

24 

43 
48 



55 
58 
63 
67 
69 



LOST AND WON, 

CHAPTER I. 

DARK, 

*' Must leave it here, Mother?" 

Eva's wide-open eyes 
Have the shine of crushed tears, though vainly 

she tries 
To give to the voice a livelier tone 
Than that of the mother or daughter have known 
This long summer-day. But the effort is vain : 
The 7nist in the skies is gathering for rain. 

They have taken their supper in silence, these 

two — 
Such silence that settles and dampens like dew; 
Not silence that falls in that sweet easy way 



lO LOST AND WON, 

Of just being quiet from iwthhig to say ; 
Not silence that broods in its soft-feathered nest 
In gentle-eyed patience, as pleasant as rest; 
But silence that seems as the gasp of escape 
From the desperate effort of giving thought 

shape : 
'Tis the echo of something now gone beyond 

reach, 
An ominous echo — the ghost of dead speech. 

The tea-things are washing, from foot and from 

sides 
Passed up to the head, where the mother pre- 
sides. 
'Tis little they need it — those dishes of relish 
That finely this tasteful tea-table embellish, 
Of first-broiled chicken, so browned and well 

basted, 
And dainty-chipped ham that neither has tasted. 

All there ! though the sorrowful supper is taken, 
The napkins and mats are folded and shaken ; 



LOST AND WON. 1 I 

No fear that the crumbs they have gathered 

to-night 
Will spoil the sheen of their delicate white — 
But simply are shaken and folded away 
For something to (h) since there's nothing to say. 

The mahogany board waxes rich in its brown, 

Which the freshly-cut f]owers so prettily crown ; 

The whisper of roses alone on the air 

Seems touching the silence with incense of 
prayer. 

Through all this long day there has come not 

a breath 
Of the thought on each heart that is heavy as 

death ; 
Each shrouded apart in a deadly composure 
Since yesterday's dawn. 

No sign of disclosure, 
But the drop on the needle would now and then 

show 
•What an ocean of sorrow was surging below. 
# # # # =^ # 



12 LOST AND WON. 

The washing is over ; one cup and one plate 
Still stand at the foot, as accust07?ied to 7vait^ 
And the basket of cake that neither can touch 
Left under the tidy — he loves it so much I 
But the coffee and rolls, how cold they are 

grown 
In the warmth of the sun that is just going 

down. 
'Tis weary, this hoping ! 'tis no use to wait ! 
Eva's questioning hand is laid on the plate — 
"Must leave it here. Mother?" 

Fretted thin with its fear, 
The voice snaps short ere it reaches the ear ; 
The words blurted out like a safety-valve raised, 
The quick-speaking eyes in the mother's eyes 

gazed. 

One moment uplifted, one moment's deep hush, 
And then the wild storm in its hurricane rush. 
And the queenly proud head in its golden-wove 

crown, 
Deep-dropt in the lap of the mother, goes down ; 



LOST AND WON. I 3 



Then ring out those words, like the death-bell 

of home : 
'' Oil Mother, dear Mother ! nfhy doii't Brother 

come] " 

Long and low they talk now in the fast-fading 

light ; 
^Tis of " poor Eldward's past '* they are speak- 
ing to-night. 
With touches of tenderness each can recall 
Here a slip, there a slide, then a desperate fall. 
^* But so kind and good ! " is repeated each time 
The love-limners touch any shadow of crime. 

" Ah me ! . . . but the weakest of mortals below! 
Poor fellow . . . has never the strength to say No ; 
But aimless and helpless, without force or pride, 
Just folds up his arms, and drifts with the tide." 
The mother, thus far, then regretfully halts. 
As what she had said had been heinously false. 

"Well, Sancho is with him — that's comfort at 
least." 



14 LOST AND WON. 

Again in deep musing both speakers have ceased ; 

When suddenly Eva the silence relieves — 

A long after sob-swell, that breaks as it 

heaves, — 
"I do wonder, Mother — I wonder so often 
Whatever became of poor Josephine Grafton ? 
• — So long since we heard ! " 

^^ Not very long, daughter; 
Six years, more or less. You remember they 

thought her 
Attached to some sisterhood. Where was it 

though — 
At Ashley? or Bedford? I can't recall now." 

" I tell you what. Mother," and Eva's warm eyes 
Sparkled out in the dark like stars in the skies, 
" There was desperate wrong ! I say it again. 
If ever a woman was wronged, it was then. 
Yes, and far more by those who handled her name 
Than even by Edward — though he bore the 
blame. 



LOS 7^ AND WO A'. I 5 

I know what I say — it was no childish trust; 
She was good as the best, and better than most." 



^' I hope so, my daughter ; and yet we do know 
Some things that were said might as well have 

bee7i sOy 
For all o' the chance that a woman can claim 
If gossip dare scent the sweet breath of her 

name. 
If once called in question, no matter for what — " 



" O Mother, cry shame on such talking as that ! 
Must answer the same if she's guilty or not, 

■y- 

When slander's foul finger can make its own 
blot!" 



" That's wdiat I say, daughter. Results are the 

same ; 
A blot is a blot^ f?'om whei^ever it ca7ne. 
And virtue's fair fabric is delicate stuff : 
A touch on the hem of that robe is enough — " 



l6 LOST AND WON. 

^' I don't think so/ Mother! I have always con- 
ceived 

That sensible people proved what they believed ; 

And know that a girl, in an innocent way, 

Does sometimes stray things, without going 
astray." 

" Well, after all, Eva, it shows, as you see, 
How^ pure the world looks for a woman to be. 
And rarely it errs. The world does not dare 
To handle a name that is spotlessly fair. 
And, daughter, you mind, if ever it does, 
There is soinewhat^ or somehow., or soinewhere a 
cause.''' 



"I would not give //?<2/ "— - the finger intent 
Is snapped in the dark to show what is meant — 
^' I would not give that ! It's every whit fudge^ 
The pitiful judgment of any such judge ! 
On merest suspicion can give out its sentence, 
That asks for no proofs, and grants no re- 
pentance — 



LOST AND WON. I 7 

But pardon me, Mother ! " 

The blush man ties uj) 
Like pure naphtha-flame in a transparent cup, 
And in the soft twilight the brave eyes look clear 
And stainless as never they'd known of a tear. 
But the unconvinced pleader, because thus con- 
fessed, 
Must carry her strong point with redoubled zest ; 
And so she comes back, with courage undaunted, 
To the one starting-point she had taken for 
granted. 

''' Z^/r, mother, you know^ that there never was 

cause, 
Nor a poor girl more wa'onged than Josephine 

was." 



^' I say so, my darling. I believe as you do. 
Report makes mistakes — and sorry ones too ; 
But I tell you, my child, as it generally goes, 
The world tells the truth, and // knows what it 
knows.'' 



1 8 LOST AND WON. 

Thus the cloud of their sorrow is rifted and 

blown 
By the little fresh breeze of this livelier tone, 
And the short night of summer is well-nigh 

half-sped 
Before mother or daughter retire to bed. 

Ah ! had they but listened just two hours more^ 
They'd have heard the dull grope of a key in 

the door, 
And had broken once more those poor hearts 

of theirs 
By the stagger of footsteps ascending the stairs. 

Very troubled the slumber with both that en- 
sues, --^^ 

As sleeps one on hearing some ill-omened news ; 

And just at the daybreak ^ each woke with a 
start. 

As if the old arrow new-moved in the heart. 

*' Did you hear him come?" No, neither heard 
that ; 



LOST AND JVOA: 1 9 

But E^M caught " Sancho's quick scratch on liis 

mat," 
And was sure too she heard, "just a moment ago, 
Archer cropping about on the paddock below." 

At breakfast again Edward does not appear, 
But Sancho is curled on the mat at his door ; 
So often thus nowl the sign is enough — 
A low drunken slun^iber that must be slept off. 

Morning's muffins and toast sent untasted away, 
Their meat and their drink shall be tears for 

to-day! 
Eva goes to her chamber to bury her shame ; 
The mother steals close to the low casement 

frame 
Just under his window, and there she sinks 

down 
To wrestle with God for her prodigal son. 

Ye angels of mercy that wait upon men, 
Do you meet on this sad earth a mournfuller 
scene 



20 LOST AND WON. 

Than that heart-broken mother there crouching 

so low, 
To wail out her prayer in prostration of woe ? 

Father, hear my prayer to-day, 
Unto Thee I come alway, 
For this loved one far astray — 
Saviour hear ! 

Though so wandering, weak and wild, 
Helpless, hopeless, all defiled. 
Yet he is my darling child — 
Saviour hear ! 

Thou alone his race can slack ! 
Send Thine angel 07i his track ^ 
Fetch my poor, lost wanderer back — 
Saviour hear ! 

I, so powerless and poor. 
Can but pray, and nothing more : 
Thou hast heaven's own countless store — 
" Saviour hear ! 



LOST AND WON, 2 1 

Thou, who earthly tears hast known, 
Didst an earthl}- mother own, 
Hear a wretched mother's moan — 
Saviour hear ! 



A good Dwther's prayer is an a/igel of love — 
Is it that coming in to the room there above ? 
That woeful, wild room — the poor maniac's 

own ! 
Where reason and sense are hurled down from 

their throne, 
And judgment upset has no sceptre to wield 
"Against the mad force that is taking his field. 

On a bed of live-coals is the poor writhing 

wretch. 
Bound fast with red chains that burn as they 

stretch ; 
And stretch how they must ! since he's fighting 

alone 
With all the foul fiends that the* hell can set 

on. 

3 



2 2 LOST AND WON. 

To right and to left he is dealing his fist. 
Hot, burning-hot, oaths through his clenched 

teeth hissed ; 
His tongue lapping fire, his eyes wildly roll. 
While the waves of the phlegathon sweep' 

through his soul. 
With pillows and bolster set up for a host, 
He is fighting a fight with the souls of the 

lost : 
One sits on his breast — 'tis red, black and 

• blue — 
That beats on and on with its ^devil's tattoo'; 
One seizes his foot ; one clinches his hand j 
One locks up his head in a hot iron band ; 
One clutches his neck with fingers so hot 
It leaves the crisp flesh in long streaks on his 

throat. ^^ 

And the rats, how they gnaw ! but not at his 

chains j 
The miserable rats, they are gnawing his brains. 
And the snakes — horrid snakes.! that twist in 

and out. 
Unwinding and winding go writhing about. 



LOST AiVD WOiV. 23 

Over walls, over floor, over bed — everywhere! 
While just overhead and susjDended mid-air 
A blue-flaming demon a link of them holds, 
While another his leg in a coil enfolds. 



How he fights! how he raves, in agony tossed; 
But the fiends are too man}- — poor soul! /le is 

lost : 
Bound hand and foot, he can struggle no 

more. 
God o' mercy ! zvho's that coming in at the door ! 

He sees it come in. He lifts up his hand — 
'Tis an angel in white — comes close to his 

bed — 
An angel in white, in his hand a drawn sword. 
Which majestic he waves in the face of the 

horde. 
One moment affrighted, they start — they give 

way ; 
Another grand sweep of that sceptrelike sway, 



24 LOST AND WON, 

And noiseless and breathless, without word or 

stroke, 
The hosts that beleaguer are scattered like 

smoke. 

The poor weary fighter falls back on his bed, 
And sinks into sleep as profound as the dead :: 
But for the flushed face and heavy-drawn breath 
You'd think he were sleeping the fast sleep of 

death. 
He knows nothing more ] not the sister's soft 

tread, 
Nor Mother's cool hand that is bathing hjs 

head. 

CHAPTER II. 
DARKER, 

The long sultry day was just nearing its close 
As the dead, heavy sleeper suddenly rose. 
His startled eye gazed at the gathering gloom,, 
The dusk of the evening has curtained the 

room — - 
There is nobody there. 



LOST AND WON. 25 



The watchers are gone, 
77/6' hcU-hanjited soul with itself is alofic. 
Wounded conscience awakes ; with her scorpion 

scourge 
She is lashing him back to the desperate verge 
Of being again in his madness consigned 
To the fiery Lake he has just left behind.^ 
x\ thought of his mother ; he smites his poor 

head, 
" My God ! what a fool ! / ivish I was dead / 
Vm killing them both ! " 

Then he sprang to the floor. 
'^ I'm killing them both — I'll stand this no more. 
I swear it. I care not — let come what may 

come — 
Just anywhere — anywhere — out of this home ! " 

And a step might be heard descending the flight 
At steadier tread than it went up last night. 
A moment's desire comes over his heart, 
'Tis a look at the dear ones e'er he depart. 
Now creeping on tiptoe, and breathless he goes 
Close up to the room where the dear ones repose. 



26 LOST AND WON. 

How peaceful that room as the soft shadows 

fall! 
'Tis his dead father's face, there, looks down 

from the wall. 
On a table apart the work-basket stands, 
With its half-knitted purse of blue and gold 

strands — 
Memento how mute ! that seems there to rise 
And look in his face as with real live eyes. 
Next by stands the bed, in its coolness unprest : 
The two beldved inmates, already undressed. 
Tired out by the day, — are now robed for the 

night. 
How sweetly serene, in their gowns of pure white. 
Those shining ones look ! 

'Tis a picture divine. 
As they kneel there in prayer at the family 

shrine. 
Upon the clasped hands are both heads meekly 

bowed ; 
The mother's faint voice is praying aloud ; 
Around the lamp-stand — the lamp burning dim 
Above the big. Bible — they ai'e p?'aymg for him I 



LOST AXD M^ON, 2 J 

A flash of quick anger springs up in his heart, 
With the sharp prick of pain's most rankling 

dart ; 
As flies the drawn arrow when string is let go, 
He is off and away on his desperate throw\ 
Quick mounted on Archer, that speeds like the 

w^ind, 
The prayer and the prayers are soon left behind. 

Over fields, over floods, through forests he's 

gone ; 
He knows not, he cares not — just onward and 

on. 
Through twilight, through midnight, till breaking 

of day — - 
Over brakes, over bridges — aw^ay and away. 
Nor up-hill nor down slacks he rein, nor drawls 

breath — 
Over fences and fastnesses riding like death. 

Poor Sancho thinks so ! as wath ears set aback, 
And a glad ringing bark, he bounds on his 
track. 



2 8 LOST AND WON. 

The reckless young master for one moment feels 
'Tis a watcher from home that is clogging his 

heels. 
*' 'Tis mother, or sister, or — dog — all the same. 
Never mind, my old fellow, Fll just block your 

game / " 



The loving feet stop at the murderous tone 

With which he is bidden "Go home, Sir! be- 
gone ! " 

Stock-still for a moment — mortified half to 
death — 

The love that has run so is all out o^ breath. 

Then, with meekly crouched tail he slinks back 
■ apace. 

But next minute turns with affectionate face 

To see what is wrong. Master hears him again ; 

With an oath he wheels round in his saddle — 
and then 

Poor Sancho's bark, yelping out sharply and 
short, 

Makes answer -at once to a pistol's report. 



LOST AND WON. 29. 

The hand does not shake, the eye is not dim ; 
There is one less at home, one less to watch 

him ; 
And now he is free to the world's end to roam, 
The last link is broken that bound him to home ! 



He looks not behind, he cares not what dies, 
The rowels strike deeper and faster he flies. 
Nor in rear nor in van is there aught to op- 
pose, 
Nothing now that shall bring this career to a 

close, — 
Except that poor Archer, fast flagging in speed, 
Gives some mortal signs that his master must 
heed. 



A thirst, too ! — a thirst of such burning intense 
It sears every impulse of feeling and sense. 
He knows not for zuhat^ — just a craving, a 

want, — 
An unquiet ghost his soul seems to haunt. 



30 LOST AND WON. 

O demons of hell ! knows your vengeance no 

goal, 
That you still can pursue such a pitiful soul ! 



A few minutes more, he alights at a gate, 
Behind which bad spirits lie always in w^ait. 
A low country Inn, like a man-trap set there 
To catch the wayfarer who approaches its snare. 
Very strange to relate, Edward does not stay 

long. 
Although there is game in that loose idle throng. 



Of some extra coin they lighten his purse, 
And the dram without scruple is swallowed, of 

course. ^_ 

But his mind is so tortured, — 'tis simply pos- 
sessed 
By the spirit of roaming, the demon unrest — - 
The only impression seems now to abide 
That life's business with him is — to ride — and 
to ride ! • 



LOST AND WON. 3 1 

Not even poor Archer sliall cheat him to stay;, 
A fresh liorse is brought, he is up and away. 
'I'he close of the next day beheld him the same,. 
Dashing madly along without limit or aim. 



Ah ! well, there is One, in mysterious ways, 
T^akes care of the child of the mother that prays^ 



CHAPTER III. 

MIDNIGHT. 

He finds him at length in a long dismal lane — 
So dreadfully dismal and dark he would fain 
Turn to right or to left, but no turn is in sight, 

The pass looks a stronghold for robbers to- 
night. 

On each side the trees bristle up thick and tall 

The white moon glides in with a ghostly foot- 
fall ; 

The strange wierd shadows that steal as you 
pass 



32 



LOST AND WON. 



From old stumps and bushes across the pale, 

grass, 
Look real enough to a traveller assault, 
Who expects every mover to call him to halt. 
Yet the night is so solemn, so audibly still, 
Not a sound but the swish of one lone whip- 

poorwill ; 
And yet more remote, more discordantly harsh, 
The dull hollow rasp of the frogs in the marsh. 
And the drowsy, low hum of the insects, long- 
drawn, 
Gape midnight's intensest and dismallest yawn. 



All at once there is heard the quick rush of a 

sound 
As of wind through the woods. The rider 

looks round ; 
He hears it on coming -^ — he knows what it 

means — 
They are at him again, those hell-fire fiends ! 
Yet nearer and nearer, with yell and with 

shout, > 



LOST AXD WON. 33 

Through the thick of the wood they have just 

tracked him out. 
He hears their wild hiugh, "We have found 

him at last, 
He cannot outride us although he rides fast." 
On ! on ! for his life from their terrible rush, 
Wide wings flapping fire that burn as they 

brush. 
Loud laughter and oaths that seem to explode 
In heaps of hell-fire that light up the road 
And show him the tortures he has not forgot, 
The lash and the pricks — all hot, burning hot. 
The boughs of the trees are alive with the 

snakes, 
Whose melting links drop every step that he 

takes ; 
Now faster and faster he feels their hot breath 
Surging close to his neck from the furnace of 

death, 
And pealed in his ear is that old echo " Lost ! " 
Like the tocsin of wa'ath from the thick-coming 

host. 



34 LOST AND WON, 

With fist and with foot, with whip and with 

spur, 
The poor beast is urged, but the beast will not 

stir. 
Lo ! a sight in that road that no beast can= 

withstand — 
An angel of God with a sword in his hand, 
A rear and a plunge, then a heavy-heaved 

groan. 
And rider and horse in the dark are gone 

down. 



The first gray of morning is scarcely abroad. 
When an angel-led carriage comes up the long 

road j 
'Tis a travelling party setforth on their way 
Before the hot sun-touch can spoil the day. 
They think they are lost, knowing not they are 

led ; 
They only behold there a horseman half-dead 
Close up to the fence : his horse grazing round, 
With delicate instinct is pricking the ground — 



LOST AND WON, 35 

'Close up to the rider to safely guard him, 

Yet not close enough to endanger a limb. 

They look from the carriage in yet greater 
wonder 

At something yet nearer, in attitude fonder. 

'Tis a poor tired dog — with a whine of dis- 
tress 

Is licking the hand that returns no caress. 

The coachman has stopped, yet dares not so 
much 

As venture the fallen man even to touch ; 

The dog gives such an ominous growl at the 
coach 

'Tis as much as his life would be worth to 
approach, 

Till a low, gentle voice calls out from within. 

The dog rises up with deliberate mien, 

As if on an instant he caught what was meant. 

And granted the credit for kindly intent. 

From one to the other, though he limped in his 
gait. 

He pressed his appeal at most earnest rate, 



_ 36 LOST AND WON, 

That asked, with the words in his great loving; 

eyes, 
'''My master is down — won't you help him to rise? " 



'Twas a picture to curdle the blood to cold- 
white : 

That glory of manhood stretched out in sucb 
plight — 

The son of a mother, the child of a God, 

Laid out like a beast by the common high-road.- 

No, not like a beast — how dare so compute? 

We ask of thee pardon, poor ungifted brute ! 

Behold here and judge, every mother's bad son,. 

The brute that has reason — the 7na7i that has none,. 



CHAPTER IV. 
THE TURN OF THE NIGHT. 

The carriage goes slowly. This long day in June 
Within just one hour is nearing its noon, 
Before there is reached such a place on the 
route 



LOST AND WON. 37 

That a poor helpless man can be safely put 

out. 
Here soon by direction the carriage drives down 
The well laid-out streets of a clean quiet town, 
At last turns the corner, and halts just before 
An archway that fronts on a hospital door ; 
And here — at the stop what a dull heavy 

groan ! — 
The poor tired burden at last is set dow^i. 
Another sharp cry of most exquisite pain, 
As the porter and coachman carry him in. 
And the dog, who unasked had taken a seat — 
The nearest there w^as to his dear master's 

feet — 
As soon as he finds they have gotten to town, 
Is the very first one of the group to jump 

down. 
A moment stock-still he stands, taking survey, 
Then goes here and there about smelling his 

wav ; 
Has limped up the steps, and limped down 

again. 



38 LOST AND WON. 

And now stands in waiting, watching the men ; 
With his forepaws upstretches himself to full 

height 
To see for himself if they have it "all right ;^^ 
Then down with a bark, and trots on the 

faster — 
Dumb words : how they speak to the heart of 

that master ! 



By the help of the three he is thus carried in 
To a bed snowy white in a ward cool and 

clean ; 
The dog wags his tail in wild agitation, 
And watches the doctor in mute consultation, 
While pressing the nearest by right of position,, 
Looks fairly as wise as consulting physician — - 
Licking softly the hand, as his part o' the 

case, 
While the arm dislocated is slipt into place. 

On a pillow as fair as a mother's pure breast 
The poor bruised head is bandaged to rest^ 



LOST AND WON. 39 

And the limb that was crushed at last finds 

repose. 
The doctor attending is just at the close 
Of a long morning round ; 

He is wearv enouo:h 
But something attracts him he cannot shake off. 
It is not the voice, for scarcely is heard 
In the faint of its tone one audible word ; 
It is not the face in whose batter and bruise 
No mother could reckon whose darling it was. 



''My mother — my sister — who'll write? — they 

must hear ! " 
In broken breath comes to the doctor's quick 

ear; ' 

"Will you, Doctor?" 

"Yes," was as curtly replied, 
And the good doctor's chair is drawn close to 

his side ; 
"I thought so: poor boy! 'tis somebody's son." 
No answer comes back but a heart-heavy groan. 
The doctor's fat hand here a stray lock puts 
• by 



40 LOST AND WON, 

That, prest by the bandage, comes too near 

the eye. 
•''Did I hear aright — had a terrible fall. 
And were crushed by the horse against a stone 

wall ? " 
"No, Doctor" — the voice comes hollow and 

hoarse 
In the sudden outstretch of its gathered-up 

force — 
" No, Doctor. I think if you knew what befell, 
I'm sure you would call it — a fall out of hell !'^ 
''Well, my son, now that's good. I am glad 

you can say 
That you and old hell have fell out by the 

way." 
'" Doctor, for God's sake ! Oh, if you but knew 
What a horrible hell my soul has come 

through ! " 
'^ Are you sure it is through ? That, my boy, 

is more 
Than most of us sinners can boast of as sureJ^ 
■^' O Doctor, just hear" — and changing position 
With ill-suppressed groan, for better narration. 



LOST AND WON. 4 1 

Ere the doctor's quick touch could the move- 
ment arrest 
That might jar the poor newly-crushed limb in 

the least, 
His eye upon Sancho just happened to fall, 
Which asleep by the cot lay there within call — 
" My Sancho, my poor dog ! he loved master so ! " 
The overstrained voice broke down in its w^oe, 
And sobbed like a child's ; then again and 

again 
Came the words like sad memory's bitter re- 
frain, 
" My Sancho ! my poor dog ! " 

Here Sancho uprose 
At sound of his name, and drew tenderly- 
close ; 
Had he been an old slave, with the born right 

of such, 
There could not have come a more loving re- 
proach 
Than his great speaking eyes let tenderly fall : 
'^Oh Master^ now don't! Makes no difference at 
all ; 



42 LOST AND WON. 

Old Sancho ^s not worth — not one pearl-drop like 

these, 
And Master may shoot him whenever he please I ''^ 



"Doctor, I shot him and left him for dead; 

Do you think that the regions below ever bred 

Such a fiend ! " 

The doctor here quietly said, 

" Ho Sancho, come here, fellow ! Now let us 
see." 

Sancho laid the hurt foot on the doctor's 
round knee. 

"Tut, tut — a mere scratch — a mere scratch — 
nothing — sha ! " 

Here Sancho indignantly took down his paw ; 

The shake of the ears said with canine dis- 
dain, 

"(9//, you don't know all tJwigs, you doctors^ 
that's plain!'' 

Then applied his own science by licking the 

spot. 
And gravely stalked back to his post by the cot. 



LOST AXD WON, 43 

Two weeks ! yet the doctor and nurse go and 

come, 
And still bring no tidings of mother or home ; 
The poor aching head feels a longing in vain 
For the touch of that hand so magic to pain — 
A mother's dear hand, than which none upon 

earth 
Has such a strange spell, from the moment of 

birth 
Till the death-damp is wiping from off the cold 

brow — 
If never before, Edward thought this thought 

no7v. 



CHAPTER V. 

BEFORE THE DAWN, 

The cool of the evening is just coming on — 
That cool, how^ exquisite can only be known 
To one who a long day in summer has lain 
On a thrice-heated bed of penance and pain. 
The invalid lay with his head on the sill 



44 LOST AND WON. 

Of the window. The beautiful twilight, so still, 
Creeps in like a dream through the mingled 

perfume 
From the garden below that is filling his room j 
The pain in his head and his limb is assuaged, 
The violent thirst that with fever has raged 
Is now gone. 

The encumbering weight of heart-woe — 
More galling than wounds — that crushed him 

so low, 
If not lifted, was yet at least lightened in part, 
By being half-shared with some one human 

heart. 



The breath of the twilight now in to him 

brings -^,_ 

The snatch of an old song that somebody sings 
Away down the street ; he is straining his ear 
To catch every note as the singer draws near. 
The singer knows not she is singing, 'twould 

seem. 
Such an absent, low hum half-lost in a dream, 



LOST AND WON. 45 

And yet 'tis a crooning as tender and deep 
As some mother were lulling her baby to sleep. 
The words melt to tear-drops as nearer they 

come ; 
That last thrilling cadence, '^ There is no place 

like home," 
What echo it makes in that poor weary breast! 
He's a child once again, at home and at rest ; 
He is listening once more, at his dear mother's 

knee, 
To '^ What heroes are," and to " What he's to 

be," 
His manhood before him unsullied, unspent, 
His little heart glowing with noble intent 
Of being ''An Honor to Mother and Home," 
And of "Coming back some day as conquerors 

come." 
One morning of all ! in his six-year-old pride, 
With his father's old rusty sword dragged at his 

side, 
The high " muster hat," with its stark-stiff red 

plume, 

Set upon his head, and he strutting the room, 

5 



46 LOST AND WON, 

And calling his " Mower " to ^' come now and 

see 
What a mighty fine geniral he's going to be ! " 
He hears the bright peals of her laugh even 

now, 
As his small eager fists kept showing her how 
She'd be listening some day to a great tum ! 

tum ! tum ! 
And would run to the window to see who was 

come ; 
And who would be there, did she think ? and 

at that 
He gave such a grand bow^ he bowed off his 

hat. 
And trying to catch it, himself tumbled after. 
And rolled on the floor in great bubbles of 

laughter. 



The memory came back in its vast tidal wave 
That seemed to drain life to one desolate 

grave, 
And wash from the shore every hope time had 

traced, 



LOST AND WON. 47 

And left bare his life-sands — a waste, what a 

waste ! 
He lifted his brow — 'twas a deathly white 

brow — 
For the first time in life Edward faced the 

truth now. 



Ah, Now! 
And where were these hopes of his childhood 

all gone ? 
What perfume remained of those sweet roses 

blown ! 
The steps of his manhood that youth's fairy 

time 
Had marked for his life-path so grand and 

sublime — 
Those steps had been taken, their echoes were 

there ; 
The life-sands still held them, but where were 

they ? — where ! 
How muffled and lost, O merciful God ! 
Down the dust and the filth of the prodigal's 

road. 



48 LOST AND WON. 

He fell on his pillow, and there sobbed out- 
right, 

Like a poor homeless child left out in the 
night. 



CHAPTER VI. 

DA YBREAK. 

The singing has ceased. The singer is near — 
She's under the window; she stops at the door. 
Next moment a voice clear-ringing and bright 
Asks the Doctor if any one wants her to-night. 
"Of course," laughed the doctor, "of course 

some one does — 
Poor fellow here now almost dead with the 

blues." -^^ 

Next moment there comes a soft step to the 

bed — 
Too listless he seems to turn even his head — 
"Anything I can do for you?" 's tenderly asked, 
As a hand on the bandaged hand 's quietly 

passed. ' 



LOST AND WON. 49 

^^ Yes. Sing it again, please, that Home — that 

' Sweet Home ! ' 
And then sit you down here, here right in this 

room. 
And tell if you know such a thing, my sweet 

one, 
Such a thing as a home for a prodigal son^ 



^' O yes, that I do ; I know such a thing." 
And in her sweet earnest forgetting to sing 
She sat by the cot, and in warm living tone 
Made new the old tale of that w^andering one 
Who, taking his all to the far-distant land, 
Wasted substance and sense with a riotous 

hand, 
Until on the husks with the swine he has 

fared ; 
Eut nobody gave to him, nobody cared, 
Only just the dear, loving father at home. 
Who in spite of it all had faith he would come, 
Kept the robe and the ring there ready alway, 
If the lost one he loved should be coming 

some day. 



50 



LOST AND WON, 



^' Did he go ? " asked the voice in eager re- 
sponse, 
^^And did the dear father receive him at once?" 



*^4t once — not a word, not a question is asked 
Of all that poor prodigal's miserable past, 
Not a look of reproach upon the dear face ; 
But running to meet him, the kiss, the embrace. 
The fatted calf killed, mirth and music around,, 
For the dead is alive, the lost one is found ! " 

'' Oh, do you kjiozu that ? Can you prove it is 

true ? " 
" That I can — I'm a proof to myself and to you."^ 
Then humbly she told him like some little 

child ^_,^ 

How she had been lost on the dark lonesome 

wild, 
And how the dear Shepherd, through hunger 

and cold. 
Had brought back the poor stricken lamb to^ 

the fold; 



LOST AND WON. 5 I 

Slie ceases. Deep silence and twilight there 

meet ; 
No answer is heard, but just the wild beat 
Of sob after sob — and then such a prayer! 
So crushed that its fragrance an angel might 

bear 
Up to Heaven's own court ; if not there, to 

grace 
Those ''vials" where prayers of "the saints" 

have their place ] 
At least for those "bottles" Christ treasures 

apart, 
That are tilled wath the tears of the poor 

broken heart. 



A woman's fair hair helps to scatter the gloom 
As the invalid's lamp is brought to the room ] 
Its well-shaded rays fall on the pale gold, 
And on a pure face of most exquisite mould. 
It is not the beauty some reckon as such, 
'Tis the beauty of sorrow's own tenderest 
touch : 



52 



LOST AND WON. 



Not health nor warm youth in those rich 

charms of theirs 
Can give to a face such a look as this wears — 
A triumphant look, as if won back from strife, 
That shines as if washed in the river of life. 

'Tis not the carnation of summer's love-day, 
'Tis the primrose of winter bloomed out from 

decay. 
That in its white innocence lifts up its head, 
And keeps its pale vigils when summers are 

dead — 
The luminous lily that bends, then uprears 
A fragrant full cup from the Nile of its tears. 

The gleam of the lamp with a touching caress 
Makes almost a halo around the sweet face 
There resting so softly upon the left hand ; 
On the third finger shines an enamelled gold 

band 
That flashes the light from its lozenge-shaped 

shield, 



LOS 7' AND IVOiW 53 

A\'here a chevron is laid on a small sable field 
With seeding of pearl, and so cunningly nice 
An untutored eye might not catch the device ; 
But one of those quaint and curious things, 
You'd know it again among thousands of 
rings. 



It chanced at the instant the light was thus 

shed 
That Edward unwittingly half-turned his head. 
The ring struck his eye. He looked yet 

again — 
Not once had he seen her since first she came 

in. 
He gazed at the face in that strange gleam of 

light, 
And then at the ring ; 

Then bolted upright, 
But prostrate fell back, as a bullet well-aimed 
Had struck him full front. 

"My God!" he. exclaimed, 
■^^ It is Josephine Grafton — my own Josephine ! " 



54 LOST AND WON. 

There is joy in heaven. 

The angels that lean 
Far over the parapets circling the skies, 
And outward are gazing with earth-anxious 

eyes, 
Behold now returning — and up, how he springs 
From the shadow of earth, on his morning-lit 

wangs ! 
The Angel of God who in conflict has heen^ 
A sin-fettered soul fro?n the devil to win. 
He's coming — they hear now his triumphal 

shout : 
" The pledge is redeemed ! the fight is fought 

out ! " 
'Tis the paean of victory cleaving his track 
As they bear him, those watchers, triumphantly 

back ; 
And as they soar upward new echoes they 

raise — 
''Rejoice, ye angels, behold now he prays T^ 
While the arches of heaven ring out the glad 

sound : 
"The dead is alive, and the lost one is found." 



AN EVENING IN THE I ATE 
SEPTEMBER. 

To the Dear Ones at Ilo/ne and Abroad, 

What a pleasant dream of after-thought 
Like hidden incense stealing out, 

Awakes from sleep in the autumn sun, 
And lingering stays in its golden haze 

Around us, when the world moves on ! 

I sit in the long old porch at home 
And think of forms that used to come 

AVhen the summer days went out like these ; 
But shadows pass on the tawny grass, 

And autumn's breath sighs through the trees. 

Old Mother knits in the drowsy sun — 
The hand upraised goes down and down, 
The bent head nods to the passing doze, 
With spectacles half-way down the nose. 
The needle slips from the finger tips — 
x\nd I think of a dear day near its close. 



56 A A EVENING IN THE 

The orchard too ! with its work all done, 
Its rosy dream of apples on ; 

Through its tangled grass a partridge calls ; 
The first clod slid to the coffin-lid 

Sounds like that apple as it falls. 



The garden there ! with its sweet refrain 
Of summer fruits all garnered in ; 
The red tomatoes one might get, 
There by the wheelbarrow half upset, 

The grapes left hanging one by one,. 

The cider jug turned in the sun — 
Old twisted stakes that memory takes 

As props to hang her wreaths upon. 



Through this stilly coolness over all- — 
Hinting the lirst wood-fires of Fall — 

The swineherd's note swells up, to fill 
The music sweet of the threshing wheat 

Away ofi[ on that distant hill. 



LATE SEPTEMBER. 57 

From the cornfield yonder see them come, 
The full-fed crows, gone cawing home ; 

Up through the blades — tops turning gray — 
The bluejay cuts with steel-cold notes 

The zig-zag outline of the day. 

The crickets and grasshoppers wake their song 
That seems to say, as it beats along, 

To the katydid's reiteration, 
''^The summer's past, w^e're going fast, 

And life throbs on to its last pulsation ! " 

The woodpecker in that locust tree, 
With its tap, tap, tap ! of persistency, 

Like undertaker's nails and hammer, 
As if it meant, with heart intent, 

A coffin for the pale dead summer. 



Life hath tombstones, as Death hath, 
That smell of damp and mould ; 

Where Friendship quits the living path, 
The marble 's very cold. 



THE SWIFT SHIPS, 
Midnight. 

The days come in and the days go out, 
Like silent ships on a silent main ; 

But the ship that's gone 

With a fleet sails on, 
And never comes back to the port again. 



They cross each other at dead of night ; 
They cross like dreams, and make no sign ; 

Nor jostle, nor jar 

As they clear the bar 
Where the sands of time make the crossing-line, 



Each night one comes, and one goes out ; 

But never we hear the stretch or the strain 
As they heave the weight 
Of their noiseless freight. 

And as quietly put to sea again. 



THE SWIFT SHIPS. 59 

■Some morning we hurry off clown to the beach 
To see what last night's lading hath been, 
And lo ! there a waif, 
All precious and safe, 
Some treasure just dropt from the ship that's 
been in. 



Some morning we come to the best-loved 

cove, 
But our flowers and shells lie scattered about ; 

And lo ! in the sand 

Is the print of a hand. 
And we know^ that another ship is gone out ! 



Our dearest, our best! — these smuggling crafts 
Do bear them away from you and from me, . 
And nothing comes back 
But the brine of their track 
And the dull night-roar of the hungry sea. 



6o THE SWIFT SHIPS. 

One morning we'll stand all ready and packed,, 

Awaiting a sail on this same old shore ; 

But we know it's the last 

Of the fleet all past — 
That the ships will come i^tto the port no more^ 



THE OLD EARTH AND THE NEW, 

Beautiful world ! with the stars in thy roof, 
And carpet ingrained with the flowers, 

Thy arched colonnades with tapestried woof 
From vine-woven alcoves and bowers ; 

With daybreaks that open up windows about, 
Fresh painted by angels' sweet touches ; 

And twilights where eve through the pillars 
steals out, 
Night standing within the dim arches. 

Grand symphonies filling thine aisles up and 
down, 
From music imprisoned all 'round, 
With shadows that sw^eep from no earthly priest's 
gown, 
And echoes unborn of earth's sound. 



62 THE OLD EARTH AND THE NEW. 

Dear God ! when we hail the new heaven and 
earth, 
I could ask for no lovelier plane 
Than this beautiful world, with its sin and its 
death 
Gone out in the last funeral traiii. 



A STROLL. 



In Dr2iid Hill Pa?'k, Balti}}i07'e> 



"Heaven's breath smells wooingly here." 

Ah me ! how old and wise Life grows 

When brick and mortar bound it ; 
And how hard-paved these souls of ours, 
Did not we, at some quiet hours, 
Get now and then beyond it ! 

When mid October days come by, 

Soft-wrapt in haze as this is, 
Who'd have the crowd-breath, hot and dry, 
Staining the blue of his sweet sky. 
Where angel-faces press so nigh 

You almost feel their kisses ? 

We'd go where some vague unbuilt looms, 

Nor dead nor living near us — 
Beyond their temples and their tombs — 
Where only God's grand arch en domes 
The temple-thoughts that stir us. 



64 ^ STROLL, 

Where, like the dew, distils the calm 

That human hearts are wanting ; 
And troubled souls, lulled by its psalm, 
Feel chrism-drops of holy balm 

From some High Priest's anointing. 



The faint wood-smell takes us afar, 
With hints and half-discloses — 
Like opening of an old home drawer. 
Which childhood held in love and awe. 
Where " Mother's things " sweet-scented were 
In lavendar and roses. 



Back ! with fresh childhood's trees unlopt 

Of childhood's first romances — 
Our rainbows where the angels stopt. 
Our green glens where the faeries hopt, 
Our wildflower-jewels wood-nymphs> dropt 
All in their nimble dances. 



A STROLL, 65 

Enchanted island of the soul ! 

Where light casts never shadows, 
Where there was never " fail " nor '* fall," 
With God's strong sky above us all, 
And we at will could scale its wall 

On our good angels' ladders. 



Now as we hear the liquid laugh 

From these old founts of Nature's, 
The same sweet faeries wash us off 
From dust and toil, and bid us quaff 
The wine of youth they reach us. 



To purple distance moves away 

Man's world with things persistent, 
And on the heart breaks Nature's day, 
Whose simpler light shows us a way 

That makes God's heaven less distant. 



66 A STROLL. 

Nor " old '^ nor " wise " can we be now 
In these pure haunts supernal ; 

'Twill teach us what the wisest know, 

To measure lengths with God, I trow ! 

Eack into children here we grow, 
In this fresh youth eternal. 

Sweet mother ! thine is all men's home, 
Though houseless ills may curse us ; 
The rich and poor alike may come, 
Till this dear breast that we sprang from 
Shall lift its mantle, and make room 
To take us back and nurse us. 



EVENTIDE; OR, THE SUNSET OE 
THE SUMMER. 

The day within doors had been heavy enough ; 

Of life and its labors aweary outright, 
I strolled to the hilltop to lay it all off, 

And bathe in the flood of the fast-ebbing 
light. 



I gazed on the sky — it was sunset up there; 
Through fringed curtains glowed the rich bed 
of the west, 
That wooed the poor earth in a soft even- 
prayer 
To cease from her labors and come into rest. 



I gazed on the earth — it was sunset down here :, 
All gorgeous in orange and scarlet and brown^ 

The weary-worn summer now seeking a bier, 
In her sunset of glory was just going down. 



68 EVENTIDE. 

Which is earth? which is heaven? they mingle 
so fast 
The earth from the heaven we scarcely can 
know, 
If the earth into heaven has wandered at last, 
Or the heavens come down to us mortals 
below. 



How far off from earth looked that heaven to- 
day, 

And now at the setting how softly they meet ! 
The earth in the arms of the sky dies away, 

And death makes the circle of life all C07nplete. 



Will God to my soul at life's sunset draw near? 

Ah, faithless — I thought as I gazed there- 
upon — 
Who closes so grandly the day and the year. 

Can bring us in glory when labor is done. ^ 



OFT WAS I WEARY WHEN I DREW 

THEE. 

Oft Var Ek Dasa Dur Ek Dro Thik. 

Two hundred years ago and more, 
Came there unto Icehind's shore 
A most quaint and antique oar, 
With this plaint in runic lore — 

Oft var ek dasa dur ek dro thik. 

Oft was I weary when I drew thee. 

Ah ! two thousand years before 
Might have come to any shore 
More things than an antique oar — 
Hiiinan breath that zue all draiu I 
With its plaint in every lore, 
Oft war ek dasa. 

From how many a drifting barque, 
Since the days of Noah's ark. 



70 OFT WAS I WEARY 

Over waters rough and dark 
Floats some oar with this same mark 
Oft var ek dasa. 



Like some timed-lined human cheek, 
With the traces tears bespeak, 
This from where the breakers break 
Throw^s its voice above the wreck — 
Oft var ek dasa. 

On the shore of Long Ago 
Some poor Robinson Crusoe, 
Tired of his fruitless row, 
Tired of all things below, 
Heaved this from his lost cargo — 
Oft var ek dasa.^ 

How we see his weary^air. 
Notching with his pen-knife there. 
In the same old dumb despair, 
This epitome of care — 
Oft var ek dasa ! 



IVIIKX / DRFAV THEE. 

Down tlie vista of long years, 
Through the surge of swelling tears, 
Future time shall see earth's rowers, 
Pulling with the same sad oars — 
Oft var ek dasa. 



And when we have scudded o'er, 
Tempest-beaten never more, 
If one token come ashore 
Which time's epitaph yet bore. 
Surely 'twould be this same oar — 

Oft var ek dasa — 

Oft was I weary when I drew thee> 



71 



